


Bella Vita

by littlelotte



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, other travelers mentioned, please support these four I love them so much, there's also some ocs i had a lot of fun with these, this is really messy and sappy forgive me, vignette fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelotte/pseuds/littlelotte
Summary: "If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning."A collection of short stories about Alfyn, Therion, Primrose and Ophilia.





	Bella Vita

I: Cliffside Cats and Maple Trees

 

At the end of it all, as Therion made his way down the Ravus’ steps for the last time, fool’s bangle in hand, there was something eating away at him that he couldn’t quite place. He’d learned to admire Cordelia for her faithfulness and Heathcote for his candor—he even started to...trust them. Not fully, he couldn’t do that just yet. Maybe he could, someday at some point, but he didn’t want to think about that. Especially not after the two of them followed him down the path out of Bolderfall because Cordelia wanted to see him off again. He felt his lips twitch into a smile—a real one—but once it faded, the ache in his chest returned.

At the end of it all, it wasn’t the Ravus house he dreaded saying goodbye too. They were a constant. They would always be in Bolderfall, and if for whatever reason he _needed_ something from them, he knew where to go.

There’s a stiffness in his legs and a heaviness in his throat. He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns on his heels. He takes a few steps back toward town when a familiar voice calls his name.

“And just where do ya think you’re going?”

“I swear, if he thinks he’s going to make some grand exit and send us off scrambling to look for him, he’s sorely mistaken. Don’t think I don’t have the upper-body strength to drag you back into town.”

“It seems Therion was unaware we weren’t going to let him wander off just yet. He’s somewhat like a cat in that way, isn’t he?”

He’s not given much time to respond before Alfyn throws an arm around him and laughs in his ear. “C’mon, Therion, ya can’t really think we’re gonna just let ya leave us like that. And why didn’t ya say anything? Shucks, you sent us on a wild goose chase after ya once we realized you were takin’ too long.”

Therion stumbles a bit. “Hng-ugh! Alfyn, let me go—!”

Primrose cuts him off. “Go where? The sun’s gone down already and the _least_ you could do is help us pay for a room at the inn.“ She shifts her weight and smiles. “Besides, I know for a fact you like spending time with us, so there’s really no reason for us to go our separate ways just yet.”

“I agree with Primrose,” Ophilia adds, “There’s still much for us to do before our journey's end, and we would appreciate your company—as a friend.”

“That’s right!” Alfyn chirps, “We’re all best friends here, so stick around for a while, why don’tcha?”

Therion stumbles again trying to pull away from Alfyn, who frowns, which makes Therion cough and look away. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucks his chin into his scarf and scowls. Basically, he’s trying to look as pissed off as humanly possible. “First of all, I was walking _toward_ town, not away from it, and honestly? I’m kind offended you people think I’m gonna just march out of here like an asshole without helping you finish what you need to do after you spent all this time helping me.”

Now that he says it out loud, the alternative sounds like a total dick move. Like, a big-time major piece of shit thing to do. Gods, what’s _wrong_ with him?

“If you really need to know, I was. Taking a walk. So don’t freak out.”

Primrose gives an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, please Therion, hiding your feelings like that will never do you any good. Just say you were afraid of saying goodbye, so you made a break for it holding on to the sliver of hope that we’d come find you anyway. Honestly, when I say you were meant for the stage, this is what I’m talking about.”

Ophilia giggles. “They do say actors have a flair for the dramatic. But, truly, Therion, you should know you don’t have to say goodbye…”

“Yeah, so don’t make us worry like that again, ‘kay? We’re tellin’ ya we want ya to keep goin’ with us at least for now. Yeah, sure, you returned the dragonstones to Miss Cordelia, but that doesn’t mean there’s not still a whole big continent to explore! And if you’re already plannin’ on wanderin’ around anyway, why not do that with us?”

Therion glances between the three of them, dumbfounded, then sighs. “Fine, fine, you got me. I’m not going anywhere.” He feels his face heat up; he stares down at his shoes. “I’ll stick around a while longer.”

“Aw, Prim, look, he’s blushing.”

“Local idiot male acts shocked I can read him like a book as per usual.”

“Hey, go easy on him guys. He’s tryin’ his best.”

“...You know I can hear you, right?”

Primrose smirks. “Of course. Good friends have to drag each other through the mud every once and a while, don’t you think? Just make sure you manage some decent payback later.”

Therion snorts. “Duly noted.”

With that, Primrose turns around ushers the rest to follow. Ophilia offers Therion a gentle smile, while Alfyn’s gaze lingers on him for half a second longer than necessary. Therion opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again as Alfyn turns, too. Alfyn walks ahead, and Therion pauses to listen to the sound of his breathing. He decides it’s a calm, steady in-and-out—nothing odd. Well, nothing except for the fact that something feels...heavy. It runs up his spine and settles in his chest; it wraps itself around his lungs and gives a haunting squeeze.

 

* * *

 

That night, the group found themselves in a one of Bolderfall’s run-down inns. Bare-bones and barely comfortable, the place was hardly what Therion would call five stars, but it would do for the time being. To save money, they reserve two rooms, one for the girls, the other for the guys. It's something that didn’t used to bother Therion until he realized Alfyn was one of the things making his chest ache. That, and the fact that their resident medicine man’s a total sap.

“I mean, isn’t it just amazing, Therion? All this stuff we’ve been doing? This journey? I never thought I would’ve gotten the chance to experience somethin’ like this.”

Therion stops messing with his scarf and stares, brows raised. “Where’s all this enthusiasm coming from? Ever since Saintsbridge you’ve had this kicked puppy vibe.”

Alfyn purses his lips, then shifts from his reclined position into an upright one, turning to face Therion. Their beds aren’t anymore than two feet apart, and the room itself is small, so comparatively, Alfyn’s pretty close.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been feelin' pretty off lately.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “But I think, even if you’re feelin’ down a lot, that doesn’t mean you can’t have moments where you’re happy about somethin’ too, y’know? I think you can be sad about somethin’ and happy about somethin’ else at the same time, is what I’m tryin’ to say. It’s kinda like when a fish is havin’ a hard time swimmin’ upstream, but gets a little boost now and again that makes it want to keep on swimmin’, even if it’s difficult sometimes. That make sense?”

Therion shrugs, then pulls his knees to his chest. “You have funny way of describing emotions. What’s got you so worked up today anyway?”

Alfyn grins. “Dunno. Today was just a good day I think.” He holds out a hand and starts counting off each finger. “You got the dragonstones back to Miss Cordelia, we got some good food earlier, you’re decidin’ to stick around, of course, which really made me happy—I think that was the best thing. We get nice warm beds to sleep in—”

“Hold on, hold on. _That’s_ why? Because I decided to stay?”

Alfyn shifts on his bed again and lays down, peering up at Therion while hugging a pillow. “I don’t see why that’s not somethin’ worth being happy about.”

Therion blinks, then lowers his head and stares at his knees. There’s part of him that wants to turn tail and make a break for it at the next possible opportunity. It would be so _easy_ like that—Alfyn would come after him, probably, but Therion had the advantage of nimbleness. With a decent amount of effort, he’d lose the apothecary for good. After that, he’d be nothing but a memory: a pair of brown eyes, a crooked mouth, and a mess of blond hair that, over time, would surely lose their shape. All he’d have to do is run.

But there’s another part of him that that wants to reach out and grab hold of whatever part of Alfyn he can, squeeze, and never let go.

“You really...” Therion murmurs, gaze still glued to his knees. “You really mean that, don’t you. Every part of it.”

“I do, so give yourself some credit and try to remember there’s people here that want you around for more than just your thievin’ skills.”

There’s the urge to run again, like a dull throb somewhere at the back of his skull. It’s drowned out, however, by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

“Gods, Alfyn Greengrass, you are _such_ a sap.”

“Yep, that’s me! Ol’ Alfyn Greengrass, sappier than a maple tree.”

“ _Ugh_.”

That earns a laugh from Alfyn, who reaches out and pokes Therion’s legs with his pillow. When he speaks, there’s real joy in his voice: “Hey now, don’t pretend you don’t like my jokes. I’ve seen ya hidin’ a good few smiles behind that scarf of yours when I go on one of my pun sprees.”

Therion snorts. “You’re delusional.”

“Hmm, maybe! But I think I’m alright with that in this case.”

Try as he might, Therion is unable to keep a small laugh from slipping past his lips. His chest shakes, and for a few seconds, the heaviness fades. He’s not sure what to do with the light, fluttery sensation that replaces it, so he takes a deep breath and reaches up for the oil lamp in between them.

“You’re a mess. Get some sleep.”

Alfyn shifts and yawns. “I should say the same to you, y’know. Been a long day for ya, and all. ‘Sides, we got more traveling to do tomorrow!”

Therion gives a slow nod, his fingertips still brushing the edges of the lamp. He takes one last look at Alfyn, who’s rolling around trying to make himself comfortable, then turns the switch. He hesitates for a moment, a million thoughts going through his head at once, then sighs and curls into his sheets.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of breathing. Therion knows from experience that Alfyn tends to fall asleep quickly, so he doesn’t have a whole lot of time to unceremoniously blurt out whatever it is he’s going to blurt out.

“Alfyn.”

“Mmm?”

“...Take care of yourself, okay?”

There’s another pause, then a soft chuckle. “I will, Therion. Promise.”

Therion closes his eyes and just breathes. “...Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

“I’m glad,” Alfyn whispers, and it’s so quiet that Therion’s isn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to hear it. “And hey, Therion? If—er, when I’m feelin’ down next, do you wanna go to the tavern with me or somethin’? My treat, I just…” A beat. “It doesn’t even have to be a tavern. It can be anything.”

Therion doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah. Wherever you want, that’s where we’ll go. My treat.”

Alfyn gives a content sigh. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” Therion murmurs as he pulls the blankets over his chest. _It’s the least I can do._

After that, there isn’t anymore conversation between the two of them. Therion lets the sound of Alfyn’s snoring lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

II: Brilliant Flame; Quiet Strength

 

“It’s me again, father. I’ve come to say hello.”

The grass that surrounds her father’s grave is soft against her knees; there’s a gentle breeze blowing stray strands of hair away from her face. Somewhere close-by, children are giggling over a card game; a cat lounges lazily beneath the tree to her right. It’s an easy summer day, and the city of Noblecourt, for all its more recent vices, is ultimately peaceful.

“I saw Revello again this morning, he looks like he’s doing well.”

If she listens closely, she can hear the steady flow of water from the fountain.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but Therion managed to trick some burglars into believing he was distant royalty today—they actually _fell_ for it. Why, I had to shove a hand over Alfyn’s mouth to keep him from blowing our cover with that loud belly laugh of his.”

She folds her hands in her lap and studies them, studies their size and shape. Her eyes move from the rings above her knuckles to the calluses on her fingertips, then shift back down to her left palm where part of her flesh is still marred with the imprint of a dagger.

“And Ophilia…” She closes her eyes. “Ophilia, she began to sob. I figured it was because she was homesick, having to leave Flamesgrace and that dear sister of hers again to help me finish my journey, and yet…and yet when I asked...” Her hands ball into tight, trembling fists.

_‘Oh, Primrose,’ Ophilia wails, ‘I just want you to be happy!’_

“She cried for my sake, Father. Those tears were for me.”

Primrose inhales sharply and bows her head. A strong gust of wind whips through the trees and sends a chill up her spine. “If I can’t keep myself motivated for the people who choose to stay by my side, then what _can_ I do? What purpose do I have?”

In the days prior, she promised she would find that for herself. That until that day came, she would keep dancing. But what was the point of dancing if she couldn’t figure out where to place her feet?

Her eyes sting; her voice is raw. “I will have to steel myself, Father, and stay the course. I cannot give up on myself, not now, and not ever. I will not let them down.”

“...Primrose?”

She jolts upright, fingers moving immediately to smooth her hair and face. She blinks away the burning sensation and squares her shoulders. 

“...Ophilia.”

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, there’s movement as Ophilia makes her way past the headstones and settles down on the ground beside Primrose. Her face is clear and her eyes are no longer tear-stained, but Primrose takes quick notice of the way the cleric wrings her hands.

“It’s a beautiful day, Prim. Perfect even.”

Primrose gives a slow nod. “It is. When I was a little girl, and I would go outside to play with Jan, days like this were my favorite. Sometimes, I’d have to be nearly dragged in by the maids when it was time for a bath.”

Ophilia giggles. “I can almost picture it...little Prim, running around with pigtails and a great big smile...”

“I used to do the strangest things with my hair, actually. Once, I tried to fashion it into a bow, which worked out about as well as you’d think, and my father had to spend a good half hour combing all the knots out.”

“Ah! That reminds me of the time Lianna offered to give me a haircut. She kept making mistakes, and before we knew it, half of my hair only came down to my chin while the rest went passed my shoulders! His excellenc—Father, I mean, had to cut the rest of it off until all that was left was a simple bob.”

This time, Primrose is the one to laugh. “Aw! How charming. Your long hair looks wonderful on you, but I’m certain you look adorable with a bob, too.”

A deep blush spreads across Ophilia’s cheeks and Primrose feels a pang of guilt in her chest. She shifts her body so that she faces Ophilia, then shakes her head. “Forgive me, Ophilia. That was…”

“No, it’s alright,” Ophilia cuts in, “I-If anything, I like receiving compliments from you. I was just caught off guard, is all.”

Primrose blinks, then nods. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. The world tilts, her head is swimming, and for the first time in a long time, she feels... _awkward._ She hears the children from before giggle again, presumably at their card game, but she can’t help wondering if it’s directed at her.

She shakes her head and clears her throat. “Well, in any case, what brings you here, Ophilia? I thought you were wandering around the market with Alfyn and Therion.”

Ophilia smiles. “I was, until Therion found a particularly healthy looking apple tree and decided to rest there for a bit. Alfyn joined him, so I left them to themselves and decided to look for you.”

“And instead of keeping our boys company you came to the cemetery hoping to find me? Why, I’m touched, dear.”

Ophilia pushes a few strands of hair behind her ear and looks down at the ground. “To tell you the truth, Prim, I would have come here regardless. Even if I didn’t find you here, I would have stayed.”

Primrose raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Why’s that?”

There’s a short pause, followed by another gust of wind.

“There’s something I would like to ask of Lord Geoffrey.”

At first, Primrose doesn’t move—only stares. Her heart stops and her mind goes blank, replaced with nothing but white noise.

Ophilia shrinks under Primrose’s gaze and folds in on herself. “Unless that is...something you would prefer I didn’t do, Primrose. Forgive my arrogance.”

‘You’re never arrogant,” Primrose blurts, her hand rushing to Ophilia’s shoulder. “And you don’t have to apologize. Please, ask my father whatever you’d like. He’s listening.”

Ophilia searches Primrose’s face for a moment, eyes dark with concern, then nods. She straightens her posture, faces Geoffrey’s grave, then folds her hands together and lowers her head. Her eyes close slowly as her lips start to move.

“Lord Geoffrey,” she starts, tone soft, “My name is Ophilia. I am a cleric.”

There’s a power in Ophilia’s voice that makes Primrose shiver. It’s like watching a medium channel a spirit. The spirit of her father.

“I do not know if you can hear me, but if you can, first, I would like to tell you this: Your daughter Primrose is a gift to this world. She is braver than she thinks, and kinder than she knows. I feel braver and kinder just for knowing her, and I believe that is something to cherish.”

Primrose’s world tilts harder this time, like she’s being throw completely upside down.

“In this long journey I have taken with her, I have come to admire her quiet strength. She has inspired me to look into my heart and find power I didn’t know I had. For that, I cannot thank her enough. She has always supported me, and has made herself an irreplaceable friend.”

“Ophilia…”

“She is truly everything you could have hoped for and more, Lord Geoffrey, and so, I’d like to ask you this.” Ophilia opens her eyes and stares at the headstone straight on. “I would like to ask you to always keep watching over her. To be proud of her, and protect her when she needs a helping hand. As I implore you to do so, I promise to do the same.”

“ _Ophilia_.”

“May the sacred flame guide your spirit always.”

Before Ophilia has the chance to say anything else, Primrose lunges forward and grabs her by the shoulders, earning a yelp from the former. Primrose buries her face into the crook of Ophilia’s neck and pulls her close, shoulders shaking. One hand digs itself into Ophilia’s hair while the other grips at the back of her neck.

“Pri-Primrose!”

Primrose doesn’t—can’t say anything. The dam breaks; a thick sob escapes her throat and hot tears spill down her cheeks.

Ophilia’s body loosens, and after a moment, a gentle hand starts to move itself through Primrose’s hair. There would be no more words between them. Not now.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, there’s laughter again, and the wind slows itself down into a light breeze. Ophilia’s hand never leaves Primrose’s hair, and Primrose never lets go.

 

* * *

 

 

III: I’ll Try

 

_“Hey, Therion?”_

The town of Clearbrook had been minutes away when Alfyn stopped and turned toward Therion with an unreadable expression on his face. He’d glanced several times back toward Primrose and Ophilia, who were trailing several meters behind.

_“...Yeah?”_

He hadn’t liked how his voice sounded. There was something weak about it—hesitant—but he couldn’t place why.

Then, Alfyn rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. It had been subtle, but it was enough to make Therion’s brows furrow.

_“Can I...Talk to you about somethin’...?”_

It was like a lead weight had lodged itself in Therion’s throat. He’d started to say something, but was cut off by the sound of Alfyn’s name. Evidently, they were closer to Cleabrook than they thought, because Nina had seen him and come running. Almost clumsily, Alfyn held his arms out to catch her, then looked back over his shoulder and mouthed _sorry._ By that point, Primrose and Ophilia had caught up and joined in on the scene, leaving Therion bewildered.

That, essentially, is how he ended up pissed off in a dinky little Clearbrook tavern with a mug he hasn’t touched and a too-sympathetic cleric patting his shoulder.

“Therion....If you’re worried, you know you can discuss anything concerning you with me, right?”

“I’m not worried.”

A pause. “Well, you’re certainly acting strange.”

“I’m not acting strange.”

“Therion.”

“Leave it alone, Ophilia.”

“Why not just talk to him?”

Therion drums his fingers on the counter and sighs. He owes Ophilia an explanation for his behavior, but he’d much rather lay his head down on the bar and groan loudly for seven minutes. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He props his chin up on his fist. “Why are you here, anyway? You’re not really the type for taverns, and Primrose will probably come looking for you soon anyway, so there’s no real point in staying here much longer.”

Ophilia’s eyes narrow as she frowns. “My feelings toward the alehouse are not of concern at the moment. What happened was, I saw a friend in need and I followed him where he wanted to go. That, in your case, happens to be the tavern.”

He looks her over for a minute, then glances back down at his drink. His hands move around the mug and squeeze.

“Friends do what they need to to help one another. If you think for a second your choice to come to the tavern is going to deter me from staying by your side, you are unfortunately mistaken.”

Therion laughs once. It’s ridiculous how hard it is to get things past her. He sighs again and decides to focus his attention on a random tavern patron, specifically an elderly man with tired eyes. He’s got wispy gray hair stuffed messily under a tattered beret. His cheeks are gaunt and his hands are covered in knots. He drinks his ale slowly and stares at nothing in particular. Judging by the way the waitress brings over a new mug without saying two words to the man suggests he’s a regular, and that, more than anything else, makes Therion worry. His skin feels hot; he can’t stop the thoughts before they start. The man has white hair not gray, green eyes not brown, tanned skin not pale, and shaking hands that don’t stop as he reaches for another drink. And another. And another. _And ano_ —

“Therion.”

“Mmm?”

Ophilia’s hand is on his shoulder again, gentle but firm.

“It’s alright.”

He really, really can’t get anything past her.

“You don’t have to say anything, I won’t ask anymore questions. Just know that, above all else, I am here for you.”

Therion’s grip loosens around his mug and his shoulders relax; he hadn’t realize how heavy his breathing was. He shakes his head, tears his gaze away from the tired man, and forces himself to face Ophilia. At the very least, he can do this much.

When he doesn’t say anything, Ophilia smiles. “In truth, I do still think that you should talk to Alfyn. Think of it like this: wouldn’t you rather put yourself out there and find out what happens instead of hiding away and never knowing what could have been?”

Therion wants to laugh, to brush it off and respond with one of his usual quips, but he doesn’t have the energy. “....You’re a good friend, Ophilia. And I’m. I’m sorry I acted the way I did.” He pushes the mug away from him and starts to pick at the skin around his fingernails. “...I know what he’s going to talk about. He’s going to ask me where I’ll go from here, or something like that. And I…” Therion purses his lips. “And I don’t know how to answer that. Our journey is basically over. We’re back in Clearbrook, and most of us don’t have much of a reason to keep wandering around Orsterra anymore. Especially not him.”

Ophilia’s expression softens into something more bittersweet. “And you don’t want to have to say goodbye.”

Therion lowers his chin into his scarf. “You said you wouldn’t ask questions.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

There’s a pause then. The bartender shimmies over and asks if they’d like another drink, but Ophilia refuses for them both. He turns his back on them looking irritated, to which Ophilia rolls her eyes. A habit she must have picked up from Primrose, Therion decides. It almost makes him laugh.

“I care about you, Therion. I really, truly do,” she murmurs, her expression melting back into that soft smile. “And so, I want you to hear what Alfyn has to say. I don’t have to ask to know that he cares for you very deeply.”

Therion shrugs. “It’s been forever since he’s been home, and he’s with his friend and that sister of his now, so I’m not gonna go barging in on their reunion demanding answers from him. It doesn’t have to be tonight, anyway. I can get a room at the inn and just ask him tomorrow, or later this week or whatever—”

“Therion,” Ophilia says, tone firm, “I want you to try.”

He tilts his head back as his mouth twitches into a weary smile. “...Guess I should, huh? Like I said before, frowns don’t suit you, so I can’t let myself disappoint.”

Ophilia rolls her eyes again, albeit playfully this time. “You won’t disappoint me as long as you try your very best.”

Therion pushes his stool back and stretches. “You sound like a mom scolding one of her brats when you say things like that. Maybe even a grandma.”

“I will take that as a compliment then. Grandmothers are said to be wise.”

“Whatever you say, grannie.”

Ophilia giggles and puts on a voice. “Remember to eat your veggies and stand up straight, dearie.” She brushes her hands down her cloak and stands up, yawning a bit as she does. “It’s getting late, so go find Alfyn. I’m sure he’s thinking about you as we speak.”

“Alright, alright, I will. Promise.”

“Good! I trust you’ll keep it.”

“I always do,” Therion murmurs, and as they make their way out of the tavern, he puts a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

“....Thank you, Ophilia.”

Her pleasant smile breaks into a wide grin. “It’s no trouble at all. You always have my full support.”

Therion salutes. The cleric gives a small wave and heads off toward the inn, leaving Therion alone at the bridge with his thoughts. The air tonight is cool and crisp, a welcome change from the humidity that normally clings to the riverlands. Clearbrook itself isn’t a large town, but it had a sense of community places like Bolderfall avoid like disease. There’s children playing a game of guards and bandits, and a woman tuning a battered viola by the shops. A couple of passersby stop to listen, and one of them, a young girl, drops a single coin into the instrument’s case. Therion finds himself drawn to it, eyeing it carefully as his hands fidget around his coin purse.

“You play well,” he says, dropping a few leaves into the case. “It’s nice.”

The woman flashes a toothy grin and thanks him, then blows a kiss with her bony fingers. Therion laughs as he opens his hand to ‘catch’ it, then waves and walks off in the opposite direction. There’s a low buzz in his ears, a smile tugs at his cheeks. Maybe Alfyn and Ophilia have rubbed off on him a little _too_ much.

He hears the viola again, same song as before, the only difference being that it sounds a bit more cheerful this time. And it’s nice, he thinks. It’s really, really nice.

“...Therion?”

He’s brought back to reality with the sound of his name. It doesn’t take long to find the source of the voice.

“....Alfyn.”

He looks flustered, like he’s been running around for hours without stopping to catch his breath. His hair is falling out of its ponytail and he’s shoved his shoelaces into his boots, probably to prevent having to tie them. For lack of a better word, he’s a wreck.

“I’ve been lookin’ for ya. C-Can we talk?”

Therion bites his lip and steels himself. He knows what he has to do.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alfyn brings him over to a long dock jutting out from the riverbed. It creaks and groans as they move across it. For some reason, it makes Therion feel like he’s a kid trying to avoid making noise while sneaking around at night. Alfyn walks over to the edge and sits, then pats a spot on the wood beside him. Therion complies, sitting with his legs pulled to his chest and his chin on his knees.

“The water’s real pretty tonight,” Alfyn breathes out, “I’ve always loved coming here on nights like this.”

Therion nods—the river has a calming presence. That, coupled with the way the moon bounces light off water’s surface gives it a surreal kind of beauty. He’s never been one for admiring nature just for the hell of it, but the longer the small talk goes on the more he wants to bring up the _‘fleeting purity of water in moonlight,’_ or something equally stupid. It’s not far off from something Cyrus, expert in all things academia and killing the mood, would say. If things go south, he’ll have to thank the loony bastard for inadvertently giving him an easy out of this conversation.

“Um, hey, Therion?”

 _Gods._ “That’s me.”

There’s a pause, and Alfyn rubs the back of his neck again. Therion can’t help but notice how his shoulders tense. He decides, instead, to focus on the way Alfyn’s hair tends to curl at the tips.

Alfyn gulps. “About before, uh, I’m...I’m real sorry about tellin’ ya I had to talk to you about somethin’ then having to cut y’off. That wasn’t right, I should’ve told Nina I needed to deal with somethin’ first before I went to go see everyone.”

Therion shrugs. “...It’s not your fault the timing was off. It’s nothing to apologize over.”

“I know but—”

“It’s fine _._ Don’t worry. _Please_.”

There’s silence again; Therion wants to bang his head against a wall. He hadn’t meant to sound so. So _harsh._ Biting his lip, he stares down at the moon’s reflection and wonders, almost childishly, if it ever felt lonely.

“Well, I guess, uh, what I’m tryin’ to say is….well,” Alfyn cuts himself off and groans. It’s enough to get Therion to look up in time to watch Alfyn slap himself on both cheeks. “St-Stupid! I’m being stupid! Agh!”

Therion raises his hands. “Hey, medicine man, you probably shouldn’t—”

“Primrose told me to be honest with what I wanna say even if I’m afraid of the answer! Or else I could lose everything!”

Therion blinks. Now, he could be wrong, but he’s starting to think a certain dancer and a certain cleric kind of sort of planned this.

Alfyn groans again, louder this time. “So just! What I wanna know is! Since you said before you didn’t really have a set place to go back to after this if you wanna stay in Clearbrook with me ‘nd Zeph ‘nd Nina ‘cause I like havin’ you around and I enjoy your company and I’d be really sad if you just wandered off and I never saw you again!”

_Oh._

There’s so much he wants to ask. So much he should ask, but can’t bring himself to question. His chest aches, his stomach is in his throat, his eyes dart from the river to his shoes and he can’t figure out what to focus on. For a split second, he’s back in Northreach, toe-to-toe with Darius as he spits and howls threats. _‘You’re such a sentimental fool.’_ Those were his words exactly—but there’s something else. Darius’ lips curl into a smile as he presses the tip of his dagger to Therion’s jugular.

_‘Nobody could ever love you.’_

He exhales a quiet laugh, then winces at how weak it sounds. You would think that after everything, he would have developed a thicker skin.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Therion. I really am.” Alfyn’s voice sounds small, smaller than it ever should. “That was. That was a pretty dumb thing to ask, huh? I must’ve gotten real carried away, askin’ somebody to stay with me and all without considering their feelings first. It’s fine if ya just wanna forget I said anythin’.”

Therion’s breath hitches. “No. Stop apologizing. I don’t want to forget.”

It’s hard to look at him. It’s so, so goddamn hard, but he has to try. He has to _try._

“...Therion?”

“I don’t want to forget what you said. It wasn’t a stupid thing to ask and you weren’t getting carried away. It’s fine. You’re fine. I just.” Ophilia’s words ring in his ears as he wills himself to hold Alfyn's gaze. “I just. _Why_?”

It’s as if an explosion went off. The word that’s been hanging on the tip of Therion’s tongue forced its way out and bounced off of everything in sight. When it comes to Alfyn, and whatever he can make of their relationship, it’s the one the one thing he knows he can’t handle the answer to.

Alfyn lowers his head and gives a small, sad smile. “Because I like you, Therion. Isn’t that enough?”

Therion opens his mouth only to realize he doesn’t have the words. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he knew how.

_‘I want you to try.’_

“Yeah,” he breathes, “that’s enough.”

Before Therion’s thoughts have time to catch up with the rest of him, an arm comes around his shoulders and pulls him sideways.

“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad.”

He’s never been one for hugs, or any displays of affection for that matter. Although, that might have something to do with the fact that he just isn’t used to it.

“....Me too.”

Alfyn’s head falls onto Therion’s and Therion lets his body relax. Everything is hazy and his heartbeat won’t slow, but at the very least, nothing feels heavy.

 

* * *

 

 

IV: A Crocus Line

 

Funnily enough, Flamesgrace, a mountain city caked in ice and snow, was fucking cold.

Primrose sniffs and wraps herself tighter in her shawl. “...It may t-take me a little while to g-get used to this, Ophi.”

Ophilia covers her mouth with a gloved hand and laughs. “Our climate can be a bit unforgiving to those accustomed to the Sunlands, but I assure you the people of Flamsegrace have plenty of warmth to give, Prim.”

Primrose squints, then shrugs. She has no room to complain considering she agreed to this little afternoon walk through the village, but nothing was going to change the fact that the tip of her nose might freeze off.

“In any case, I’m glad you decided to accompany me today. There’s something I want to show you.” She extends a hand out to Primrose, smiling warmly, and tilts her head to the side. “So, won’t you come with me?”

Her eyes move to Ophilia’s open hand. Even though there’s snowflakes sticking to the wool, the cleric’s glove still looks warm.

“Of course, dear.”

Fingers intertwined, Ophilia smiles and leads Primrose away.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think will become of our boys, Ophilia? I mean, I’m expecting about three letters a week from Alfyn once he figures out where we get settled, but I wonder about Therion…”

Ophilia looks up from her tea. “Therion and Alfyn? Oh, I think they’ll be fine. Therion agreed to stay with Alfyn in Clearbrook, and I think that will be good for the both of them.” She brings the cup to her lips and smiles into it. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Those two together...it makes me happy when I think about it.”

Primrose nods, picking up her own cup and taking a sip. “I’ll say. If I had to listen that lovesick boy worry himself half to death over Therion for another second I swear I would have marched right over to the little twerp and confessed _for_ Alfyn.”

“Aren’t you the one who originally asked him about it? Kept pestering him until he admitted his feelings to you? Then swore you were going to be Alfyn’s—how did you put it—wingman to help those two get together?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Primrose crinkles her nose and frowns. “You make it sound like my complaints aren’t valid! You had to help Therion with his,” she makes a vague hand gesture, “emotional constipation, but I had to deal with Alfyn’s constant whining! It was like listening to a puppy howl!”

Ophilia laughs and sets her tea down. “Oh, Prim, I know you didn’t really mind it. You love those two like brothers. You even teared up when we left Clearbrook last week.”

Primrose huffs. “And you didn’t? Besides, Alfyn could barely get a word out through his sobbing, and even Therion sounded a little emotional!”

“That’s because we’ve all become very close friends. It’s sad to say goodbye to friends, right? That’s why, when we get to Flamesgrace, we’ll have to respond to Alfyn’s several letters and pen several of our own. Maybe send some to Tressa, H’aanit, Cyrus and Olberic too.”

Primrose whistles lowly. “Come to think of it, how long has it been since we’ve seen them? We split off months back to complete our respective journeys, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to check in on them…”

Ophilia claps her hand together and grins. “Then why don’t we take a bit of a detour and visit them all together? Last I heard from Cyrus, he’s happily back in Atlasdam. Tressa seems to be home in Rippletide as well.”

Primrose leans her head onto her arm and breathes a wistful sigh. “That...might be nice, actually. I really would love to see them all…”

“Then we’ll do just that.”

As Primrose makes eye contact with a triumphant Ophilia, she can’t help but smile.

 

* * *

 

The walk up the hill is a trying one. Primrose isn’t used to the way the cold air weighs down her lungs. Ophilia, on the other hand, seems right in her element as she marches to the top almost effortlessly.

“Almost there, Prim.”

Primrose groans. “I sure hope so.”

It’s not like she has any lack of stamina; rather, it’s been a while since she’s spent this long in the frostlands. When she’d arrived in Stillsnow to find the first crow, she hadn’t even considered the cold. It was an afterthought, something that stood in the way of her and her goal. Something she brushed aside.

“We’re here.”

Primrose looks up to see a smiling Ophilia, who’s just now let go of her hand. She beckons Primrose over toward the edge, then folds her skirt underneath her and sits down in the snow. Primrose mimics the cleric’s movements until she’s sitting beside her, then, takes a moment to let herself breathe.

The hill’s peak is a high point that overlooks the entire city of Flamesgrace. She’s never been one for heights, but this particular spot has a tranquil serenity to it that keeps her worries grounded. From up here, the cathedral looks almost otherworldly. Whether it’s the reflection of light against snow or the odd power that seems to emanate from the building’s walls, there’s something about the sight of it all that leaves her feeling a certain way.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it Prim?” Ophilia whispers, a low thrum of wonder in her voice.

Primrose nods. “It is. No wonder you like coming here so much, Ophi.”

Ophilia hums. “Lianna used to bring me here all the time, back when I was still struggling to come out of my shell…” She leans forward and presses her fingertips into the snow. “This place is very special to me, and so I wanted to take you here so you could see it for yourself. There aren’t any words to describe it, I don’t think. Not enough, anyway.”

The funny thing about being up this high is the way it makes the people look down below. For a single, childish second, Primrose pictures herself as a little girl again, admiring her handiwork with a dollhouse.

“There’s a flower here, too, that I like.” Ophilia reaches down and gives a light tug, then shifts slightly to give Primrose a better view of what she has in her hand. “They’re called crocuses. I’ve been told they’re meant to symbolize cheerfulness and glee. Isn’t that pretty?”

Ophilia passes the flower into Primrose’s open palm, and Primrose takes the exchange as an opportunity to stare. Ophilia’s hair is pulled into loose braids that fall over her shoulders. The moisture in the air has caused some of her fly-aways to curl, which only makes the hairstyle that much cuter. The pale pink of her scarf matches the rosiness of her cheeks, and there’s this twinkle in her eyes that, to Primrose, outshines the light of any cathedral.

“It is,” Primrose murmurs, eyes trained Ophilia’s face, “Beautiful, even.”

Ophilia blushes and tugs at one of her braids. “Pr-Prim, I was talking about the crocus…”

Primrose smirks, then twists the stem of the flower and gently pushes it into Ophilia’s hair. “There we go. Even prettier.”

Ophilia squeaks, hiding her face in her hands. The red of her cheeks spreads to her ears. “....I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything at all.” Primrose reaches for Ophilia’s hands and gives a light tug, pulling them away from her face in one swift motion. “You are beautiful, Ophilia Clement. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

As Primrose says this, the snow begins to fall heavier. A large flake lands on Ophilia’s nose, and Primrose uses her thumb to rub it off. Ophilia nearly goes cross-eyed trying to watch her, and Primrose laughs—really laughs—like she’s never laughed before.

 

* * *

 

“Say, Prim?”

Primrose opens her eyes to the sound of a voice, then shifts herself on the bed.

“Yes, dear?”

Ophilia’s huddled form is barely visible in the dark, but Primrose can tell they aren’t facing each other. It wouldn’t matter, since the candle’s burned out and the cleric’s facial expressions would be a mystery anyhow, but Primrose still frowns.

“Oh, w-well, it’s just—”

“Look at me please, Ophilia.”

There’s a pause, then a small grunt as Ophilia slowly turns herself over on the bed. When they’d rented the room for the night, they’d both agreed it was cheaper to purchase one bed. _Why spend the money on two_? Primrose had argued, which, to her credit, _did_ have something to do with cost. The other half of it, well, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like having Ophilia close to her.

“M-May I speak now?”

Primrose feels a twinge of guilt, but nods. “I’m listening.”

There’s another pause, longer and more awkward than the previous one, but after what feels like hours, Ophilia sighs.

“I was wondering, um, h-how long you planned to stay in Flamesgrace. I would...I would never want to hold you down someplace if you don’t want to be there, but…” Her voice trails off into a low whisper, one full of anxiety and doubt. “But I enjoy your company, Prim. I like having you around. I think you are...incredible. I-Is that weird to say? Um...”

Primrose shakes her head and reaches for Ophilia’s face. Even in the pitch black of the room, she’s somehow able to rest her hand on the other woman’s cheek without trouble. “Honestly, dear, I haven’t given it that much thought. I was worried that if I did, I’d come to an answer that didn’t sit well with the both of us. Isn’t that silly of me? I was worried I’d suggest staying, and it’d become readily apparent that someone of my...variety would be better off elsewhere.”

Truth be told, she was a bit worried stepping foot into the Flamesgrace cathedral would send the bishop into a nervous frenzy. Not just because of her status as a dancer, (that, undeniably, would turn more than just a few heads—but she’s used to that) but because the weight of her sins on her back. There were more polite words for it, sure, but for all intents and purposes, she’s a murderer. And sure, the men she killed were all deserving of it, but in the eyes of the pious, her actions would still be considered foul.

After everything, after all she’s done, for her to traipse on in there hand-in-hand with the church’s beloved flamebearer…could bishops and priests see the darkness in others through looks alone?

“Primrose?”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me for saying this, but you are a fool.”

“O-Ophilia?!”

There’s subtle movement as Ophilia pulls Primrose’s hand away from her cheek and laces their fingers together. For once, Primrose is glad it’s dark, because there’s enough heat in her cheeks to set sand on fire.

“You are a fool, Primrose Azelhart. For thinking that you are not welcome in the church. For thinking you are not welcome in the place I call my home. If you were ever to feel unwelcome, I would put my foot down that very instant and see to it myself that whoever’s troubling you leaves you be.” She gives Primrose’s hand a firm squeeze. “I would never dedicate myself to a place that would reject you. And if it did, I would make them see how wrong they are.”

All Primrose can do is close her eyes and try to breathe. There’s something stirring in her chest and pulsing through her veins—something she can’t name. Something terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Something...new.

She feels Ophilia’s hand in her own, makes note of the curves in it, and gives a tight squeeze.

 

* * *

 

 

“Should we head back inside soon? I’m far more used to the cold than you are, Prim.”

As much as Primrose tries to deny it, the constant chattering of her teeth is more than enough to give her away. “I’m imagining warm blankets and hot chocolate by the fire.”

Ophilia spares a glance at the cathedral, smiling, then quirks an eyebrow up at Primrose. “Maybe I can even get Lianna and some of the other clerics to join us. You haven’t gotten the chance to sit in on one of her story circles yet.”

Primrose feigns shock. “You mean to tell me you and the members of the church share _scandalous_ stories while the rest of the world thinks you’re all effortlessly pure?”

“It isn’t anything scandalous,” Ophilia pouts, “but, there is a bit more drama than one would think…”

“Ah! Yes. Church drama.” Primrose holds a hand over her head and mimes a faint. “I’m feeling weak just thinking about it.”

Ophilia shakes her head, still smiling as she moves to stand up. “Here, Prim, take my hand and we’ll walk back to the cathedral together. I’m sure Lianna and the others will be more than happy to see us.”

“Alright, alright. There’s no use arguing it now, is there?” Primrose tries to keep the hesitation out of her voice, but fails as she feels Ophilia’s hand close around hers.

“Everything will be okay, Prim.” She holds their connected hands up in front of Primrose’s face. “It’s just as I said before. If anybody were to ever doubt you, I will stand in your corner and fight for you. This, I swear on the sacred flame itself.”

For a second, Primrose just stares.

“That is a promise.”

Then, she closes her eyes.

“Now, let's go home.”

And once again, Primrose lets Ophilia take the lead.

 

* * *

 

V: Birnam Wood is on its way

 

If there’s anything strange about living with Alfyn, it’s that he’s started to pick up on all the apothecary’s little quirks and idiosyncrasies. Maybe strange isn’t the right word—but it’s the best he can think of. Watching Alfyn go about his daily life makes Therion feel something he can’t explain.

“Hey, Therion, can ya pass me the rosemary salve? I need to take a look at it…”

Therion blinks. ‘Which one is that again?”

Alfyn leans over and taps his chin with his index finger (one of his habits, Therion notes) then points at a pale green bottle with his free hand. “That’s the one. It’s got a little pink ribbon on it. Y’know? For roses. Rosemary. Heh.”

Therion’s mouth twitches into something like a smile as he scoops up the bottle and hands it to Alfyn, who grins and thanks him. Color coding medicine vials and decorating them in odd ways is another one of Alfyn’s tendencies.

“Thanks for helpin’ me out with this, Therion. I’ve been meaning to go through all my potions for a while now—just haven’t gotten the chance. Plus, I need to remake some of ‘em, ‘cause they’ll start to go bad soon.”

Alfyn’s balms, herbs and medical supplies are littered all over his bedroom floor. _Their_ bedroom floor? Therion’s still not sure what to call it. All it really is is a spare room on the second floor of Zeph’s house, which, is apparently where Alfyn’s been staying for years. It’s got one bed, a single closet, and a large, oak dresser where Alfyn (and now Therion) keep most of their clothes. There’s a pile of books stacked semi-neatly in the corner beside the bed, most of them being old medical manuscripts and herbal encyclopedias, plus a couple of wooden chairs lined up against the opposite wall. Alfyn claims they’re a part of his ‘entertainment center,’ which is really just two chairs and a dilapidated folding table that shakes when they play cards.  

“Don’t mention it. This is too much work for any sane person to carry out by themselves anyway.” He pulls his legs to his chest and leans his head on his knees. “Although, I bet you have. Several times.”

Alfyn, being Alfyn, laughs it off with a shrug and reaches for another, almost empty vial. “Sure have! Somebody had to do it, anyhow.” He takes a spoon and scrapes what’s left of the salve out into a bucket, then sets it down by his feet. “Sure is a heck of a lot more fun with you around, though.”

Therion closes his eyes and snorts, hugging his legs closer as he does. “Sap.”

“Like syrup on pancakes!”

“ _Ughhhh.”_ Therion’s groan is dramatic, but there’s no malice in it. He buries his face deep in his scarf and sighs. “Remind me again why I put up with you?”

Alfyn laughs again, then leans closer as he pokes Therion’s shoulder with both fingers. “‘Cause you like me a whole lot.”

Now, he could try. He really, seriously could—but there’s no denying the fact that Alfyn’s smile alone makes his chest warm and his thoughts stutter. There’s definitely a _word_ for it, he just doesn’t know. Or maybe he does know, somewhere in the back of his mind, buried deep within memories he hasn’t dug through in years. It could be haunting. It could be freeing. It could be both.

“If you say so,” Therion murmurs, and again, his words have no bite. He picks his head up and squints at the apothecary, who’s looking rather pleased with himself, which makes Therion roll his eyes. Alfyn responds with another flurry of pokes, then goes back to sorting his wares. Therion watches him closely; there’s something heartwarming in the way Alfyn cares for every potion he makes. He handles each vial with a ginger touch, and make sure never to crush or bend the herbs until they’re ready for blending. Therion had pegged him as clumsy when they first met, but Alfyn manages to prove him wrong every time he mixes medicine.

“You know,” Therion starts, tapping his finger on the salve closest to him, “I know it’s not really your thing, but you could stand to charge a little more for these, considering how well you take care of them.”

Alfyn rubs the back of his neck (another quirk) and sighs. “Guess I could, huh?” He picks up an aloe potion and peers into the bottle as if to search for imperfections. “And believe me, you wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that. But it just doesn’t feel right. I mean, s’not a sick person’s fault they got sick, and it’d be wrong of me to charge a boat load of leaves for my services if they don’t have much to give.” He sets the first bottle down, then goes for another. “‘Sides, doin’ things the way I do ‘em now makes me happy. It makes me feel good to know I’m helping others without askin’ for a lot of money in return.” Alfyn grins. “It’s kinda like bein’ a hero.”

 _You are a hero,_ is what Therion wants to say, but the most he can manage is a shrug. “If doing things like this makes you happy, then I won’t stop you. Just...be careful, that’s all.”

“I’ll have you know, careful’s my middle name.”

“Idiot.”

“That’s my second middle name.”

Therion fights back a laugh, fails, and buries his face in his knees again. “I really don’t know what to do with you.”

Alfyn chuckles softly. “You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”

And with that, there’s silence, save for the occasional clinking of vials.

 

* * *

 

 

“Eh...this is worse than I thought.”

Therion whistles lowly. “You think anybody would question whether or not a hurricane blew through this place?”

Alfyn elbows Therion in the side. “Not funny. In any case, Zeph’s tryin’ to get a hold of somebody who can help fix things up. The windows can be fixed, and the damage to the roof can be patched up. S’more the way everything feels a bit more shaky and off-level that I’m worried about.”

Therion nods. “And, of course, with our luck, the most damage happened to the _upstairs_ portion of the house. Zeph and Nina got some flooding, sure, but had the tree fallen any closer to our room, it would’ve crushed us both.”

Alfyn shudders. “I’ll say. Guess we’re luckier than we thought.” He bends down to scoop his dustpan off the floor, then sighs at a pile of broken glass. “Kinda makes me feel bad we’ve been livin’ up here all this time. I mean, if we weren’t, Zeph wouldn’t be in such a bind tryin’ to get the whole house fixed right away.”

Therion’s grip tightens around his broom. There’s debris scattered all over their bedroom, and both windows have been shattered clean through. There’s water damage to the ceiling and busted veneer. It’s like a scene from a tragic play: pitiful and hard to look at.

“I have money,” he says slowly, then stops himself when Alfyn freezes.

“I-I know. It’s just. It’s just I don’t think Zeph would really want—no. It’s okay, Therion. We’ll figure out a way to take care of it. No worries.”

Therion sucks air through his teeth. He expected this, he just didn’t expect it to hurt. “...I don’t understand why you won’t let me help.”

Alfyn’s brows knit together as he brushes more glass into the dustpan. His shoulders are rigid and his hands start to shake. “It has nothing to do with the way you. The way you _get_ your money. It’s more that I’d feel bad havin’ you pay for it. ‘Sides, Zeph’s not the type to accept somethin’ like a loan from—”

“—From a thief?”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. Alfyn stops completely, shoulders sagging as he sets his dustpan down on the floor. It makes Therion’s throat tighten and his stomach drop.

“I’ve never thought any less of you for that.” Alfyn’s voice is so quiet, Therion has to strain to hear it. “I would never think less of you for anything.”

Therion looks down at his feet, then up at the ceiling, his hands glued to to his sides as he gnaws at his lip. He can’t look at Alfyn—not when there’s that sting in his eyes he can’t stand. Not now.

“...Talk to you later,” is all he says before turning on his heels and leaving the room. There’s static in his ears and thunder in his chest; all he can do when Alfyn calls his name is hold a hand over his mouth as he slips out of the house from the back.

 

* * *

 

“Erm, hello good sir. Might I have a moment of your time?”

Therion cracks an eye open to see a short, stocky man dressed in bright colors with a lute strung over his shoulder. A bard.

“Can I...help you?”

The bard shifts his weight to one side and starts rummaging through his satchel, cursing quietly as he pulls out a thick wad of papers. “Yes, you can, actually, er—” He turns the papers over and nods. “There we go—now if you'll just give me a moment,” he clears his throat once, then three more times, “hello! We are the proud members of the fledgling acting troupe, Birnam Wood, and today is your lucky day because you’ve attracted the watchful eye of one of our senior talents!”

Therion blinks a few times, then stares. He could be wrong, but he’s pretty sure he’s still huddled under a tree on the edge of Clearbrook, and has been since he came here this morning to—well, experience _emotion_ related to water and the eyes.

“Uh, Sir?”

“Lenny.”

“....Lenny. If you, uh, haven’t noticed, I was kind of, like, asleep when you found me. So I don’t really know how that tells you. Literally anything about my talents.”

Lenny waves him off with his hand. “Ah, but, the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew there was something special about you. ‘Twas like an electrifying z-a-p right in the center of my chest, and I knew, oh I just _knew_ you had all the makings of a star, young man!”

“....You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

Lenny sinks to the ground, dropping his papers and his lute as he does. “Truth be told, you look like you’d take my wallet and the deed to my home right from under my nose as soon as my back was turned, but our director’s getting antsy about our lack of, er, shall I say, _dependable_ recruits, and I figured it was best not to judge and sell our pitch to every living person I laid eyes on.”

If it wasn’t for that fact that he was still feeling the effects of his...disagreement with Alfyn, he would have laughed. Instead, he snorts and leans forward, eyeing the mess of the fallen papers. “Fair, but it’s a little insensitive that your director would send you to a town that was just rocked by a hurricane.”

Lenny tugs at his mustache and pouts. “It was on the schedule, so…”

Therion shakes his head. “Let me see one of those.”

Lenny perks up at that. “C-Could it be that you are interested?”

“Hold your horses,” Therion mutters as he skims over the script. The packet he picked up seems to be dedicated to a character called Lionus, a young, quiet prince who laments the loss of a close friend, while still having to maintain rule over the royal court. _Fascinating._

“Ah! Lionus! Good choice, young man, good choice! We’ve had trouble casting him as he is, well, a difficult character to pin down. He’s a bit of a brooding type, with complicated emotions that he struggles to explain in lengthy soliloquies. You look the part, certainly, but whether or not you can  _act_ the part is the question.”

Therion glares at the man for a few seconds longer than necessary, then relents with a sigh. Primrose had always raved about his acting capabilities, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, at least a little. There’s also the fact of the hurricane that destroyed parts of Zeph’s (and Alfyn’s) house, so if he were to, say, get the part and do a handful of performances, he’d have a sizable amount of honest money to throw around.

That, of course, would all depend on him actually getting the role. Which, considering Lenny’s earlier comments on his appearance, he’s got a cait’s chance in a pirate’s den.

“...Is the monologue on page three alright?”

“Oh! Yes, yes. That’s a perfect choice for any audition. It details his complicated feelings for his deceased friend, Andrew, who, before his death, had planned to murder Lionus for a chance at the throne.”

_Really._

Therion sighs, reading over the script one last time. _This is for Alfyn_ , he tells himself as he closes his eyes and clears his throat.

“My friend, my brother, my most trusted partner; why do you haunt me so?”

The monologue is about a page long, and by the time Therion’s finished, his mouth is dry and the back of his throat itches. After a minute or so, he works up the nerve to face Lenny, who gawks at him wide-eyed like he’s just witnessed a meteor strike.

“That was...That was…”

“Look, I’m sure you have your fair share of _constructive criticism_ , but I’m really not in the mood so—”

“That was simply spectacular.”

It’s Therion’s turn to gawk. “...Huh?’

Lenny shakes his head, then reaches forward and grabs Therions hands. “You...You’re a natural. A natural! For the entire duration of your performance I heard newborn baby birds chirping and muses singing and children laughing and, oh! Where have you been all our lives?! Mr....Mr…”

“...Therion.”

“Therion!” Lenny cries, “Aelfric’s blessings are upon us this fine afternoon! Therion, star of the stage, Lionus himself, regal and refined but _dark_ and _disturbed_. I can see it now! And I’m sure—no—one! Thousand! Percent! Certain! Our director will feel the same!”

Before he can say anything else, Lenny shoves another handful of packets into Therion’s hands, humming along to some festival tune as he does. “Be sure to show up practiced and ready. You’ll see a traveling tent just west of here on the trail. Be on time, dress nice, and wear your most charming smile. Auditions are tonight at eight!” ‘

Therion balks. “Tonight?!”

“To-Night!” With that, Lenny claps and stands up. He slings his lute back over his shoulder and starts to move off in the opposite direction, giddy and grinning like a child during the holidays. “Be there and show the director egg-zackt-lee what you showed me!”

Therion doesn’t even have the time to get another word out of the guy before he runs off, spouting something ridiculous about how Orsterra has awakened to its next great star.

With an exasperated sigh, Therion looks over the script again, then clutches the packets close to his chest.

This is for Alfyn.

 

* * *

 

Everything that happened over the past few hours was a blur. If Lenny hadn’t slapped his back hard enough to send him toppling over, he would have thought it was a dream.

Now, he stands just outside the door to Alfyn’s bedroom, holding the full script to Birnam Wood’s break-out play in his hands. It’s dark inside—that much he can tell, but he’d bet half his coin purse Alfyn’s still awake.

He takes a moment to calm himself. He starts by counting backwards from twenty, then lets himself breathe. Once he’s ready, he gives the door and light push and lets himself in.

“...Alfyn?”

There’s the sound of blankets shuffling, followed by a loud sniffle.

_Oh._

“Th-Therion?”

Therion pauses in the middle of the room, biting his lip as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “....Sorry it took so long to come back. I had….something I needed to take care of.”

There’s shuffling again, and this time, Alfyn turns on the light. At first, it blinds him, but once he adjusts, he’s met with a very pitiful-looking Alfyn with red-rimmed eyes and mussed up hair. The sight makes Therion’s heart sink; the guilt clings to him like water-soaked clothes in the aftermath of a downpour.

“...I didn’t go anywhere _bad_ though,” he whispers, crinkling the script in his hands, “I went to go...try something new.”

Alfyn stares at him for a second, bewildered, then rubs his eyes and shakes his head. “S-Sorry ya had to see me like that. C’mere.”

Therion complies, legs stiff as he makes his way over to the bed. Once there, he moves to sit down, but Alfyn stops him with a quick tug at his wrist as he pulls Therion into a tight embrace.

“—Alf—”

“I’m sorry, Therion. I’m really, really sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel like I doubted you and I’m sorry I made you feel bad about what you do and I’m sorry I denied your money and I’m sorry I made you so sad.” He chokes back a sob and hugs Therion closer. “You deserve better from me. I’m sorry.”

Therion’s breath hitches, his heart lodges itself in his throat. “D-Don’t apologize. You didn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I acted like an ass and ran away. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Alfyn buries his face in the crook of Therion’s neck. “I wasn’t thinking. I try t’shoulder things on my own sometimes and in that case, it was stupid. It sounded more like I was treatin’ ya like a problem than somebody who could help. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Therion lets out a shaky sigh as they fall into silence. He takes one hand off the script and touches the nape of Alfyn’s neck gingerly, like it’s something fragile. One of Alfyn’s hands is balled up in Therion’s hair, while the other grips his waist.

“I’m sorry, Therion.”

Therion closes his eyes to fight the sting. “....I’m sorry too.” A beat. “But don’t…Don’t just blame yourself, okay? Don’t sit there being hard on yourself like that when I...When I’m the one who’s still. Still new at this. The one who still has a lot of,” he bites his lip, hard, “a lot of growing up to do.” He gives the back of Alfyn’s neck a soft squeeze. “...It’s not just a one way thing. So please...don’t take all the blame.”

Alfyn sniffles again as he starts to run his hand up and down Therion’s back. After another moment of silence, he pulls away, but still continues the motion. “A-Anyway. What’s that in your hand? I know you were tryin’ to tell me somethin’, and I sorta just...lost it I guess.”

Therion blinks a few times, then glances down at the packet. “It’s a script.”

Alfyn’s brows furrow. “A script?”

“...Yeah. A script.” Therion pulls his hand away from Alfyn’s neck and smoothes out the crumpled papers. “I, uh, auditioned for a play.”

Alfyn blinks, then goes wide-eyed as he grips Therion’s sides. “You auditioned for a play?! Like, a real, genuine play?! Gods, Therion, why didn’t ya tell me? If that’s the script, then did ya get the part? Did ya? Are you gonna be in a play?!”

“Slow down, slow down. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Lenny the talent-scouting bard didn’t give me a whole lot of time.”

“Lenny the...Huh?”

Therion makes a vague hand gesture. “I’ll explain later. But, anyway...yeah. I auditioned for a play, and I got the part.” He flips to the first page of the script and presses the tip of his finger next to his character’s name, third down on the list. “I’m gonna be playing a moody prince. Imagine that.”

Alfyn’s eyes practically bug out of his head as they move back and forth from Therion to the script. He decides, finally, to settle on gaping at Therion. “You…You’re gonna be in a play. You...You…” Alfyn shakes his head and grins. “That’s amazing! I’m so, so proud of you!”

Before Therion has the chance to say anything else, Alfyn pulls him in for another hug. “So when’s the show start? Do ya have rehearsal a lot? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Therion rests his chin on Alfyn’s shoulder, exhaling as the tension in his muscles starts to fade. “Rehearsals start next week. And don’t worry about helping...I’m doing this for you.”

Alfyn stops, then pulls away again and frowns. “Therion, no. Don’t just do this for me. I want you to do it for yourself.”

Now that— _that_ was something that shook Therion to his core. For a moment, all he can do is stare. Stare, and wonder what he did to get himself here. Stare, and wonder what he did to deserve this.

“...I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

 

Opening night, for lack of a more appropriate word, is...an experience. He’d never expected to feel stage fright, but as he stood in the dark, waiting for the curtains to open, there was a split second where he genuinely considered running for the hills.

Once it was over, he and his fellow cast-mates bowed to a standing ovation. It was too much. It was overwhelming. It was _electrifying._

When he steps off stage, he’s immediately greeted by a flurry of support and praise from Lenny, who’d been a stage manager during the performance.

“You were wonderful. Wonderful! Wonderful!” Lenny’s so giddy he’s turned red, and Therion can’t help but laugh.

He makes his way through the stage wings and out one of the back doors onto the street. For once, it’s chilly in Saintsbridge. The cold air sticks to his face and reminds him he’s wearing makeup, and better yet, dressed like a prince.

It’s so funny that he starts to laugh. Really, genuinely laugh.

“There you are!”

“—Hey—”

He cuts himself off with a yelp as Alfyn picks him up and spins him— _actually_ spins him, several times until he gets that dizzy feeling and has to grab Alfyn’s face to get him to stop.

“You were amazing, y’know that? Absolutely amazing! I’ve seen ya play the part in heists, no doubt, but up there? You blew me away, Therion. It was incredible.”

Therion breaks eye contact; he’s smiling so hard it hurts. “You really think so?

“Think so? I know so!” As Alfyn says this, he shifts his weight to hold Therion up with one arm, while the other he brings up to ruffle Therion’s hair. “The part where Lionus stood up for himself in front of the whole court and finally got the courage to speak? That part chilled me to my bones! If I’m bein’ honest, I think I cried a little…”

Therions hands are still on either side of Alfyn’s face. He takes his thumbs and starts to rub them along Alfyn’s cheeks, tracing lines of freckles from his ears to his nose. “You’re such a sap.”

“You bet I am,” is his response as he moves closer to let their foreheads are touch. “Allllwaaays a huge sap.”

What happens next is easily the clumsiest display of affection to ever exist. Therion takes their closeness as an opportunity to lean in for a kiss, which surprises Alfyn to the point where he nearly drops him, leaving them both laughing hysterically as they cling to each other for support.

“I’m gonna keep doing this,” Therion says finally, “so one day we can get our own place. No stolen money.”

Alfyn frowns, evidently caught off guard by the suggestion. “Y’know I don’t judge you for—”

“Shut it. I’m doing this for myself, too.”

At that, Alfyn smiles, and it’s one of the most amazing things Therion has ever seen.

“I love you, Therion. I really, really do.”

Any heaviness left in his chest flies out through his mouth and leaves in its place a warmth he didn’t know he had. A warmth he never knew he could _feel._

It must be something like love, he decides.

“I love you, too.”

It must be something like happiness.

 

* * *

 

 

VI: You’ll lose the blues.

 

“I’ve missed this place, you know? It’s so charming and warm. And I must admit, I am rather fond of the beach…”

Primrose watches the water roll, feels the coolness of the ocean waves as they soak her feet.

“I’m actually quite glad the church called me here. When I’m not at work, it feels a bit like a vacation, and I’ve never gotten the chance to vacation before.”

She presses her fingers into the sand and starts to trace a pattern she can’t explain.

“Primrose?”

“Hmm?”

Ophilia’s expression is one of concern. She places a gentle hand on Primrose’s shoulder. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Is everything okay?”

A thousand excuses swarm through Primrose’s head. She’s tired. She’s just not _feeling_ too well. Acid reflux. A migraine. A nightmare. Too much sand stuck where there shouldn’t ever be sand.

“If there’s anything troubling you, please don’t hesitate to tell me what’s wrong.”

Primrose shakes her head, pulling a smile. “I believe you caught me while distracted, dear. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to enjoy the ocean like this.” She laughs a little. “Look at me, hopeless and staring off at the sea, when I’ve had an absolutely stunning woman here by my side the entire time.”

That, at the very least, gets Ophilia to blush. “I-I appreciate your compliment, Prim, but…” Ophilia bites down on her bottom lip and frowns, wringing her hands. “It’s...Well, I don’t mean to pry, but there’s something I’d like you to be honest with me about.”

Primrose’s gaze flicks back to the ocean. A group of seagulls take a dive toward a school of fish, squawking wildly as they do. It’s so chaotic, it’s almost soothing.

“Of course, dear. Anything.”

There’s a short pause, followed by sigh. “Well, the thing is, Prim. What I want to know…” Ophilia cuts herself off with a quiet hum. In her peripheral, Primrose can see the cleric tugging at her hair. “It’s just...how are you, really?”

 _Oh._ Primrose turns to face Ophilia and frowns. “How...am I?”

Ophilia nods. A seagull lands close to her—close enough to touch—and she reaches out to pet it, but it skitters away. Her hand falls slowly, then comes to rest in her lap. “Yes,” she murmurs, “I want to know how you are. How you really are. I want to know.” A beat. “I want to know if you’re happy. Are you happy, Primrose?”

The question hits her like a ton of bricks. If she had learned any less composure, she would have doubled over right then and there.

“What’s brought this on, Ophi? Have I been acting in a way that would suggest otherwise?” She attempts a smile, hoping to the Gods it doesn’t look forced. “If it troubles you, though, I’ll have you know I’m doing a lot better than I was. Of course, some days are still difficult, but I can honestly say my quality of life’s improved. Especially with you in it.”

Ophilia gives a slow nod, expression unreadable, and all Primrose can do is hope her response was enough.

“...It’s just….What about you, Prim? You say you’re happier now that I’m here, but what about yourself?” Her voice drops to a whisper so quiet Primrose can hardly hear it over the waves. “Are you happy with yourself?”

 _There it is._ Primrose lets her shoulders sag, wondering, very briefly, what it would feel like to have the ocean sweep her away.

“I suppose that’s something that remains to be seen.”

For a second, Ophilia doesn’t move—just stares. Then, in an odd, almost forced motion, she folds her hands in her lap and turns to face the horizon.

All at once, Primrose realizes it would take a much bigger ocean to drown her.

 

* * *

 

“Hm...Those little lanterns may look nice if we hang them from the balcony, and oh! Placing snapdragons in each of the vases would look wonderful!”

A couple of younger clerics follow close behind Ophilia to help complete each task, and Primrose watches them, watches the way they admire her. She’s so loved here—so at home—like the final piece to a seemingly unsolvable puzzle. The waves of relief and satisfaction felt after the fact is similar to the effect Ophilia has on the people of the church.

All Primrose can do is watch.

“Ophilia my girl, your efforts in helping us prepare for the festival have been simply marvelous—what would we do without you?”

Ths bishop, now that his daughter was safe at home with him, is a livelier person than Primrose remembers. With a flourish, he gathers the attention of the cathedral, then shuffles over to Ophilia wearing a gentle smile.

Ophilia matches his smile with one of her own. “Oh, it’s no trouble, your Grace. I’m simply doing my duties.”

The bishop waves her off and laughs. “Come now, have faith! We are always grateful to receive our beloved flamebearer’s services, and with such a keen eye for design, we couldn’t have chosen anyone better to help with preparations!”

Primrose studies the scene carefully. Ophilia blushes and glances off to the side, which earns another laugh from the bishop. He takes her hands in his and offers a reassuring grin. In response, Ophilia squares her shoulders and stands a little straighter. She’s grown strong. Stronger than before.

Primrose, on the other hand, had been a disaster. She’d dropped a box of decorations on a cleric’s foot, then bumped into a support column while trying to apologize. Every other word that had come out of her mouth had been hit or miss with the sisters, to the point where, for the first time in years, she felt _stupid._ Even though nobody was busy staring at her, she kept feeling this strange tickle on her back that led her to believe otherwise. For all intents and purposes, she’d been warmly welcomed into Ophilia’s circle.

“We cannot thank you enough, sister Ophilia.”

Why can’t she reciprocate?

“If your parish in Flamesgrace is ever in need of our services, we shall be at your every beckon call.”

Why is it so fucking _hard?_

She’s sitting in a dusty corner of the church, watching Ophilia shine as a beacon of hope for entire droves of people—for an entire country, even—and all she can do is watch. Watch, and wonder what in the Gods’ names a girl like that would ever want with her.

“Your everlasting kindness and grace has given us so much hope. Many young clerics, through hearing of your adventures, have found a new purpose.”

There’s an itch she can’t scratch and a tingling in her spine; her legs stiffen and her teeth clench. She can feel the storm.

“That’s very kind of you, your Grace. But you mustn’t thank me alone. Primrose, too, was an excellent help—she’s far better with this sort of thing than I am. She seems to have gone to rest for now, but if you just give me a moment to find her…”

Primrose doesn’t give her the chance. Before Ophilia can finish, she slips out into one of the halls, then through one of the cathedral’s side doors. The sun beats hot on her shoulders, but she wraps herself in a hug.

What right did she have following somebody like that? What right did she, somebody with no purpose at all, have in taking advantage of a woman strong enough to grant purpose to others? How could she be so pitiful? How could she be so careless?

Ophilia Clement has given her a home. A family. Friends. _Love._

“What have _you_ ever given in return?”

The question weighs on her; it turns her skin to lead and her bones to dust.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Miss, can I sit with you?”

Primrose looks up from her daze to see a pale little girl with frizzy black hair and wild blue eyes. She has on a tattered brown dress that falls a couple inches above her ankles and no shoes. She’s on the skinnier side—not exactly waif-like, but not exactly healthy either.

“If that’s what you’d like,” Primrose tells her, “but I must ask: why?”

The girl shrugs, then plops down on the sand next to Primrose. “You looked sad and lonely, so I thought I’d keep you company.”

Primrose laughs. “At least you’re honest.” She shifts her body a bit so that she’s facing the girl, who’s currently trying to dig a seashell out of the sand. “Tell me, little one, what’s your name?”

“Flora, but you can call me Flo. I like that better anyway.” A smile spreads across her face as she plucks the seashell out of the sand. “I always see girls looking for shells here, and apparently they make money doing that, so I decided maybe I should try it myself. Think that’d work? Think I’d have enough money to buy a nice dress if I did?”

Flo sets the shell down beside her, and Primrose attempts her best smile. “If you keep digging, who knows? You might find all kinds of treasure out here.”

“Thanks, Miss,” Flo says, digging her hands in the sand again, “what’s your name again? Did I ask? Or did I just start babbling all over the place?”

Primrose shakes her head. “It’s no trouble, dear. And it’s Primrose, but you can call me Prim.”

Flo’s mouth falls open. “Your name sounds like it comes from flowers too! That’s such a co-in-ci-dence, Prim! Maybe the Gods think we’re meant to be friends.” She flashes a toothy grin and pushes her bangs out of her face, little bits of sand sticking to the tips as she does. “If you’re so pretty and have such a nice name, why are you sitting here all alone on the edge of the beach? Normally, I come here when _I’m_ mad, so I don’t really expect to see somebody else. Especially not somebody like you.”

To Primrose’s dismay, this child (odd as she may be) is no different from the rest in the sense that her frankness is brutal. A seagull lands on the boulder beside them, and Primrose starts to study the way it picks through its wings.

“Well, everybody gets a little sad once in a while, and it helps to be alone and think.” Primrose pulls her legs out from under her and stretches them out so that the soles of her feet touch the water. “You said you come here when you’re mad, didn’t you? What’s wrong, dear? Why did you come out here today?”

That seems to work—Flo’s shoulders sag as she sighs. “It’ll probably sound stupid, or like I’m being a big baby, and I’m not really in the mood to be made fun of again.”

Primrose’s brows furrow. “Who’s making fun of you? Is it some of the other kids around here?”

Flo presses her lips together and looks down, her hands balled up in the fabric of her dress. “It’s not the kids.” She picks up the seashell beside her and scratches at it, suddenly very focused. “It’s Mama.”

Primrose blinks, motionless, then nods. All at once, she understands. She shifts a bit closer to lay a hand on Flo’s shoulder, and when she picks up the conversation again, she uses a softer tone: “Tell me, Flo. What is your mother treating you like that for?”

There’s a long pause as Flo seems to mull it over. She scrunches her nose up and twists her mouth into a tight frown, then focuses her attention on her hands. “Well, I guess it’s ‘cause I’m really selfish all the time. We’re real poor, like. Very, very poor, but ever since I was really little, I’ve always talked about wanting to be a famous dancer and actress. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember, but every time I talk about it, or every time she even catches me dancing, she says I look like a fool, or that my dance is stupid.” She sets the seashell back down into the sand and pushes on it until it's partially submerged. “When I try to argue, she just calls me selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish Flora.”

The seagull from before leaps from the rock and lands in front of them, poking at the shoreline with its beak. Flo watches it, and Primrose watches her watch it. For a brief second, the girl smiles.

“I wish I could be like that bird. They can do whatever they want, and nobody ever makes fun of them for it. And even if they do, they can just fly away and go be happy someplace else.”

A single scene from her childhood puts itself on loop in Primrose’s head. Her father is tired. He sits down in his velvet armchair for a rest. There’s bags under his eyes and a perpetual tremor in his hands. Primrose walks over and curtsies, then once she has his attention, starts to twirl. He smiles and says she’s a lovely dancer. A blessing.

“I could even fly away from Mama when she gets like that. If I’m gone, maybe she won’t be so sad all the time.”

Primrose removes her hand from Flo’s shoulder and folds it in her lap. The seagull’s body tenses as if the sadness emanating from the little girl is too much to bear, and flies off.

“Just like that,” Flo says with a wistful smile, “That’s the way I wanna be.”

Primrose’s eyes lose focus as the bird’s form loses shape in the distance. “Flo, how old are you?”

Flo turns her head. “Eleven.”

“Eleven years old? Well, eleven year old girls are supposed to be filled with dreams. If your mother tells you otherwise, she’s wrong. It’s never selfish to have dreams.”

Flo blinks a few times, frowning. “But, Prim...Mama’s poor, and if all I do is talk about dancing, it’s not fair to her.”

Primrose shakes her head and grips Flo’s shoulder again, a bit firmer than last time. “Why do you want to dance, Flo? What goes through your mind when you imagine yourself on stage?”

The sun hangs low over the horizon, casting its golden hue on the beach. It makes the little girl look less pale—more _alive_ —and wise beyond her years.

“Well...I see myself on stage wearing a pretty dress and neat braids and...there’s a whole big audience watching me. People from all over Orsterra. They’ve come to see me and…” She trails off into a whisper and clenches her fists. “And they’re smiling. I dance and they cheer. I act and they laugh. I sing and they sing with me.” A small, sad smile creeps onto her face. “They’re happy. They’re all so happy, Prim. And when I’m finished, I realize that, if any of them were sad before they came in, even if their mama was mean to them or somebody made them cry that very same day, they’re smiling now.”

Something starts in Primrose. It emerges from the hole in her chest and blooms. It wraps itself around her ribs, her lungs, her heart, and goes from there, filling her with warmth.

“You dance to make people happy, Flo?”

Flo nods, voice small. “Yep.”

“Alright then.” With that, Primrose stands up and extends a hand out toward Flo, who looks at her like she’s grown a third eye, but nevertheless, grabs hold. Primrose brings her up to a standing position and reaches into her bag. She pulls out a couple of loose bobby pins, then brushes Flo’s bangs away from her face and clips them above her ears.

“There.” Prim backs away from Flo and places her hands on her hips. “Now that those are out of the way, you’ll be able to see better when you dance.”

Flo looks bewildered as she clutches the hemline of her dress. “R-Right now? Here?!”

“Here and now.” Prim gives a twirl of her own, and Flo’s eyes widen, “You came to sit with me because I looked sad, right? Well, after hearing how passionate you are about your dreams, I think seeing you dance would cheer me up more than anything else.”

There’s worry in Flo’s eyes as she stares at Primrose, like she’s searching for signs of the inevitable jeer. Finding none, she takes a deep breath and plants her feet in the sand, then smooths her hands along her bangs.

“I’ll dance, then.” She raises one arm above her head and sticks the other out to the side. “P-Please don’t laugh, okay?”

“You have my word.”

Flo falters briefly, then gives a furious shake of her head and straightens out her posture. She places one leg out in front of the other, breathes in, and starts to twirl. It’s hard in the sand, but Flo manages to maintain her posture as she attempts more difficult steps and leaps. She only stumbles when she tries a pirouette, but again, it’s the uneven surface that stops her.

Once finished, Flo curtsies, then stares at the ground. When she finally picks her head up, she’s met with a smile.

“Bravo, Miss Flo! You truly are a star of the stage!” Primrose brings her hands together and claps, “You’re a natural, dear!”

Flo’s jaw drops. “Y-You think so?!”

Primrose nods and moves to ruffle Flo’s hair. “I do. And you want to know what else I think?” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out a rolled-up piece of parchment paper. “I think you’re good enough to perform at the festival.”

Flo goes wide-eyed. “W-Wait, seriously?! But how? A-Am I supposed to audition?” I’ve never auditioned for anything before and I know I still have a lot of practice to do and I don’t know what Mama’ll say and—”

“You’ve already passed the audition, honey. And as for how, let’s just say I’m rather close with a certain Ophilia Clement.”

If Flo didn’t look ready to keel over before, she definitely does now. “Wait-wait-wait. You know Miss Ophilia? The flamebearer? You really know her? You know her and you’d tell her you want me to dance at the festival?” She all but snatches the scroll out of Primrose’s hands and yanks it open. As she reads it, her eyes move back and forth in a way that can only be described as cartoonish.

“This is really…Prim, you really…” Flo sniffles and bites her lip, wrinkling the parchment with her hands as she tries to hold it in, “I r-really made you happy with my dance, and n-now you’re gonna make it so I can dance at the festival.”

“I am.” Primrose kneels down in the sand and places both hands on Flo’s shoulders. “But I want you to promise me something first, okay? Can you do that for me, dear?”

Flo sniffles again, but nods. She folds the parchment in half and sticks it under her arm, then brings her hands up to rub her eyes. “O-Okay.”

“You have to promise me that you’ll never stop dancing.” She gives Flo’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Never stop dancing, no matter what they tell you. No matter what Mama says, and no matter how many people point and laugh. Never give up on that beautiful dream of yours.”

There aren’t words, Primrose realizes, as Flo chokes out a sob and buries her face in her hands. All she can do is wait for the storm to pass.

“I p-promise, Prim. I promise I w-won’t give up.”

“I know you won’t.” Primrose pulls a handkerchief out of her bag and presses it into Flo’s balled fists. “Now dry your tears, dear. The cathedral’s still open, and I think Ophilia will be very excited to meet you.”

Primrose takes Flo’s hand in hers and the seagulls watch them go.

 

* * *

 

 

The day of the Lucent Flame Festival is a lively one. The residents of Goldshore—and many from nearby towns—fill the streets with an abundance of food and music, while clerics move through the crowds handing out ceremonial flowers. Families clad in white and yellow stop to pose for sketch portraits, and merchants peddle their wares with gusto. Had Primrose never stopped here in her travels, she would have never guessed this town knew suffering.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Ophilia’s smile is radiant as ocean breeze blows through her hair. “The festival has been a complete success.”

It’s early in the evening. They sit together on the steps of the cathedral, looking out over the crowd as the moonlit portion of the festival enters its full swing.

“That little girl you brought to us, Prim, was an absolute miracle on stage this morning. She started teaching other children in the audience the festival dance, and before we knew it, she had an entire crowd singing along.”

When Flo had finally come off stage, she’d rushed over to hug Primrose. After she’d pulled away, her mother pushed through the crowd wearing a gloomy expression, then burst into tears as soon as she saw her daughter’s face. Flo had clung to Primrose’s hand as her mother apologized for her cruelty, then thanked Primrose for looking after her daughter for so long. Before letting go of Primrose’s hand, Flo had looked her mother in the eyes and swore she’d never stop dancing, as it was a promise between her and her ‘big sister.’ The mother nodded then, still in tears, and took her daughter’s hand in her own.

 _“Be strong, little one,”_ Primrose had said, _“And never turn your back on that dream.”_

 _“And you are always welcome in the church,”_ Ophilia had told her, suddenly behind them, _“Feel free to come here whenever you need.”_

“You really made her happy, Prim. You gave her something incredible.”

Primrose looks at Ophilia, studies the shape of her face and the curl of her eyelashes, the dimples in her cheeks and the twinkle of her eyes, then lets her head fall to rest on the cleric’s shoulder. “And she gave me something in return.”

Ophilia leans her head against Primrose’s and hums. “What’s that?”

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Primrose manages to find Ophilia’s hand and close her fingers around it. Ophilia squeezes back and nuzzles closer. “Inspiration, I think. Flo dances to make others smile. She gets on stage and performs because she thinks it makes people happy. I’ve never thought of it like that. I’ve spent so long as a dancer, and yet, I never thought of dancing for the sake of earning a smile.”

A group of girls walk by, each of them talking and laughing along to something Primrose can’t quite catch. “I realized, all the way back when I had visited Father’s grave for the first time, and I had told him I’d keep dancing ‘til I found my purpose, that the key had been in my hands all along. Dancing gave me strength, and now, dancing can give me purpose. My _own_ purpose. Something that’s specifically mine.”

She feels Ophilia lift her head up, most likely to look at her. Primrose does the same, and the expression on Ophilia’s face is something she won’t forget for a long time.

“I will keep dancing. I will dance for myself, and I will dance for others. I will dance until they can smile, and I can as well. I will dance, sing, act, perform, and use my skills to soothe the worries of others. I will teach kids like Flo the songs and steps I know, so that they, too, can find their own happiness, and their own dance.”

Ophilia stares at her for a moment, unmoving, then blinks as her eyes fill up with kinds of emotions: contentedness. Pride. _Relief._

“Oh, Prim, I’m so happy for you.” She uses her free hand to stop the tears. “I’m so, so happy for you.”

Primrose grabs hold of either side of Ophilia’s face and smiles. “Go ahead, love, ask me how I am.”

Ophilia matches Primrose’s smile with a teary one and presses their foreheads together. “How are you, Primrose?”

 _This._ This is what it’s all about. “Wonderful,” is all she says before leaning in for a kiss. In that very instant, fanfare sounds in the streets, signalling the clock’s strike of eight. Another lantern will be sent out to sea.

When Primrose pulls away, she keeps her hands on Ophilia’s face. “There will still be days where I won’t be. There will still be days when I wonder if I’ve gotten any better at all.” With a sniffle, she taps Ophilia’s nose with her thumbs. “But I won’t give in. I, Primrose Azelhart, swear I will keep dancing for the happiness of others, and the happiness of myself. That is my vow.”

Without warning, Ophilia moves in for a kiss, her own hands coming up to cup Primrose’s cheeks, too. “And I will support you. Every step of the way.”

The warmth in her chest grows; it makes her wonder if she’s actually glowing.

“I’ll be sure to make you proud.”

 _And she would,_ Primrose decides, and kisses Ophilia’s nose. _She would._

 

* * *

 

 

VII: Reprise

 

Therion is lounging in bed at the Saintsbridge inn with a script in his hands when Alfyn opens the door. He picks his head up just in time to watch the apothecary sit down on the bed beside him, laughing as he runs a hand through Therion’s hair. Even in the dim light, he has a glow to him that reminds Therion of the sun.

“What’cha got there?”

“A script for the new show we’re working on.” Therion flips through the pages until he reaches the front, then holds it up with a smirk. “Interestingly enough, it’s a musical.”

Alfyn grins at that, chuckling as he looks through the script. “A musical, huh? Lemme guess big shot, you’ve got the leading role?”

Therion snorts. “Nah, supporting, actually. They wanted to cast me as one of the lead’s sidekicks, who’s mostly there for comic relief. I get a fake mustache and everything.” He puts his index finger under his nose and smiles. “It’s good to branch out. And besides, I told Lenny that if they cast me as some gloomy prince-type for the third play in a row, I’ll bury myself in dirt with nothing but a straw for air and they can use the man-power to dig me out.”

Alfyn pokes Therion in the arm and frowns. “Hey now, even if ya buried yourself in dirt as a joke, ya know I’d be comin’ to dig ya out.” He grins. “So that’s not really gonna work.”

“Ugh, why can’t you ever let me just be dramatic?” Therion feigns disappointment as he holds a hand to his chest. “And here I was, thinking you _cared,_ Alfyn Greengrass.”

He gets another poke in the arm for that, harder this time. “Uh, excuse me, drama king, I _love_ you.”

A warm blush spreads across Therion’s cheeks as he swats at Alfyn, who grabs his hands and pulls him into a hug, then pushes him down on the bed and lays beside him. Alfyn props himself up on his elbow and laughs, meanwhile Therion has to resist the urge to pinch his boyfriend’s nose.

“Anyways, how was the house visit. You manage to help the kid and his cat?” Therion says it like it’s a question, but he already knows the answer.

“Sure did!” Alfyn chirps, “I’m real glad I managed to help that cat, too. Both she and the kid had come down with somthin’ and honestly, I was more worried about bein’ able to help the cat than the kid, ‘cause I never really worked as a vet before.” He moves his fingers through Therion’s hair again, “But ol’ Alfyn and his magic potions did the trick!”

Therion leans into the feeling of Alfyn playing with his hair and sighs. “Course you did. I bet you’re that kid’s hero right about now.”

Alfyn hums at that. “Ya think so? The more ya say stuff like that, the more I start to imagine myself with a big, billowing cape. What do ya think I’d look like if I had one of those?”

Therion doesn’t skip a beat. “A huge dork.”

“Hey!”

Before he can react, Alfyn makes a grab at the sides of Therion’s face and pulls him in, then takes his knuckles and runs them roughly through Therion’s hair. It makes Therion gasp, then laugh as Alfyn uses the opportunity to reach for his sides and tickle.

“Okay! Okay! I give!—” he can hardly breathe— “I give!”

Alfyn giggles as he lets Therion go, then tips his head forward so that their noses touch. “Tell me more about this musical of yours. I wanna hear all ya have t’say.”

Therion reaches behind Alfyn and grabs the script from the side table, nuzzling a bit closer as he does. “It’s about a group of maids and butlers who disguise themselves as royalty in a foreign country. The king gets this idea because he’s a lazy shit and doesn’t feel like going, so the whole thing’s really a mess of these bad actors trying to, well, _act_.” He pulls away slightly to get a better look at the script, then taps his finger down on the cast list. “It’s a pretty big show, actually, and Birnam Wood’s looking for an ensemble. Dancers, especially. Lenny’s been asking me if I know anyone.”

Alfyn grins at that, just like Therion knew he would, and taps his chin. “Come to think of it, I think we know someone who’d be perfect for the job.”

“Let’s write her, then. I’m sure she’s dying to hear from us.” Therion sits up on the bed and sets the script down in his lap. “Tressa, too. She’s been wanting to come see one of the shows. And we all know how Cyrus gets when it comes to the _theatre._ ” He says the last part with his take on a Cyrus impression, and Alfyn snorts. “Here, give me some paper.”

Alfyn gives him what he needs, and Therion writes the letters, all three of them until he’s done. Once finished, he folds them up neatly and hands them back to Alfyn, who slips them into his satchel.

“This is gonna be amazing, Therion,” Alfyn says as he throws his arm around Therion’s shoulder and kisses his cheek, “I can’t wait to see everyone again.”

Therion tucks his head into the crook of Alfyn’s neck and takes one of Alfyn’s hands in his. He likes the way their fingers fit together. “It’s been a while, huh? I mean, we get _letters_ from Prim and the rest, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t prefer seeing them in person.”

“They feel the same, I’m sure.” Alfyn yawns and stretches. “I’ll take those letters out tomorrow. For now, we should probably get some sleep.”

“You could be right, but we’ve survived off of less sleep than this in worse situations.” Saying ‘ _I want to stay up and talk to you’_ is still difficult. It’s something he’ll have to work on. Something he _will_ work on. “But you know what they say: actors need beauty sleep.”

“It’s a good thing you’re already plenty beautiful.”

“Ugh. Stop. You’re gonna give me a rash or something.”

“But it’s true!”

Therion groans loudly at that, unable to fight the smile tugging at his cheeks. “How do I let you get away with acting like this?”

Alfyn pulls an exaggerated pensive look. “‘Cause…you love me?”

Now, Therion could try, but there’d be no use arguing with that. In fact, he wouldn’t dare it. “...You got me.”

With another laugh, Alfyn reaches for the lamp and tugs the covers over the both of them, then pulls Therion down into a hug. The room is dark now, but Therion can make out the shape of Alfyn’s chest and the curve of his neck.

“...Hey.”

“Mmm?”

Therion inhales sharply. “I’m gonna have enough money for us to get our own house soon. I already helped Zeph pay off the damages to his place, and I’ve been saving money from each of our performances, so…” He stops when he feels a hand run up his back, then continues once he relaxes into the touch: “I’m...happy about this, Alfyn. I really, really am.”

He feels Alfyn smile against his forehead. “I’m happy that you’re happy. I’m happy for us both.”

It’s too much. It’s really just too much.

“...I love you.”

But he tries it anyway.

“Love you too, Therion”

And he no longer has Atlas shoulders.

“Now get some sleep.”

He will continue to move forward at his own pace.

“You too, Al.”

And battle shadows with the sun.

 

* * *

 

 

VIII: And Bow

Primrose sips her coffee slowly, reading over Therion’s letter again and again until her vision blurs. _Birnam Wood’s putting on a musical, Prim,_ he’d written in his typical chicken-scratch, _And I think you should join us._

“What do you think, Prim? Are you going to turn him down?”

Primrose looks up to see Ophilia’s concerned expression. They’re sitting on the bay-window seat in Ophilia’s bedroom, sipping morning coffee and talking about nothing. Well, nothing and Therion’s proposal.

“I’m just thinking about what would happen if I committed myself to a troupe. There’d be traveling sometimes, and you have your duties to the church, so…”

Ophilia gives her a tight-lipped frown. “Primrose Azelhart! I’m shocked at you.” She shakes her head and exchanges the frown for a sad smile. “I would never keep you from going somewhere that makes you happy. In fact, if you were to tell me you didn’t want to join Therion in this show for my sake, I’d do everything in my power to convince you otherwise.”

“I see.” Primrose’s voice is quiet as she skims through the letter again. “Then, in that case, I suppose I should pack my bags and reply with a yes.”

“Absolutely.” Ophilia sets her coffee down on the table and stands up, stretching a bit as she does. “And I’ll be packing mine as well.”

Primrose blinks. “But what about your duties?”

Ophilia’s already halfway across the room, reaching under her bed and pulling out two small suitcases. “I’ll get a bit of time off to come join you when you meet up with Therion and Alfyn. And even if I can’t stay for the whole time the musical’s being rehearsed, I’ll be sure to come back in time to see a performance.”

“Are you sure, love? I mean, all that traveling back and forth would be tiring on anyone. And you’re always working so hard and—”

“—I’m positive, Prim. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She brings the two suitcases over to her dresser and starts to sort her clothes, then gestures for Primrose to do the same. “When we’re apart, I’d miss you, of course. But I’d also be happy knowing you’re doing something you love, with friends you love.”

The sun coming through the window starts to grow hot on Primrose’s back; she can only hope her cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. Shaking her head, she sets her coffee down and goes over to Ophilia. She pulls a suitcase toward her and reaches into a dresser drawer, still dazed as she fumbles through her clothes.

“I think we should tell H’aanit about this, too. And Olberic. Therion mentioned in his letter that he’d already written Cyrus and Tressa, and if we get those two involved as well, we’ll have all eight of us back together again, at least for a while.”

Ophilia folds a blouse in her lap and tucks it into her case.“Ooh, I like that idea. Want me to write something up as soon as we’re done?”

Primrose nods, running her hands down a dress. It’s yellow and covered in daisies—a gift from Goldshore. “To tell you the truth, I’ve missed H’aanit’s company. And Olberic always mentions wanting to stay in touch in his own letters, so I think they’d both appreciate coming along.”

“Then we’ll have them meet us in Saintsbridge,” is Ophilia’s response as she gets up again, seemingly satisfied with what she’s packed. “I can’t wait, you know,” she says as she grabs a pen and paper from her bedside table, “I can’t wait to see you and Therion on stage together. I’ll be counting down the days until I get to witness your performance.”

Ophilia settles down on the floor beside Primrose, humming a sweet tune as she writes. Primrose watches the way her hand moves across the page, takes note of the way she draws little circles on the tip of each ‘i’. It’s cute—just like her.

Once finished, Ophilia folds each letter neatly, setting them down to the side. Primrose, seeing an opportunity, yawns and lets her head fall to rest in Ophilia’s lap, who blinks down at her, amused.

“Tired are we?” Ophilia’s fingers move through Primrose’s hair and tap at her temples. “Didn’t you just drink all that coffee?”

Primrose pretends to think about it, then shrugs. “Perhaps I wanted to relax and stare at my beautiful girlfriend for bit, but I’ll go somewhere else if I’m not wanted.”

Ophilia gives her a look. “You’d be a fool to think you’re not wanted.” Despite her scolding, she keeps her hand in Primrose’s hair. “But you’re right, Prim, this is very nice. I get to look at you as well.”

“Then I guess we should stay like this.”

“I agree.”

There’s silence then, and Primrose just breathes as she takes in the sight of Ophilia’s golden hair in the morning sun. It hangs down from her head and brushes Primrose’s cheeks, and all at once, the world stops. Nothing turns, nothing spins.

When Primrose speaks again, it’s a low whisper: “You’re beautiful, Ophilia Clement.”

Ophilia giggles; it’s like the tinkle of wind chimes on a breezy summer afternoon. “As are you, Primrose Azelhart.”

And she’s lucky. She’s lucky. She’s so goddamn lucky.

“I love you,” Primrose says suddenly. “I love you, Ophilia.”

Ophilia smiles and the skin around her eyes crinkles. She’s seen Ophilia smile like this before, but for whatever reason, this one makes her heart stop.

“I love you too, Primrose.”

The affection in Ophilia’s voice is contagious; Primrose brings her hands up to frame the cleric’s cheeks and keeps them there.

“Let’s finish packing.” Ophilia runs her fingers up Primrose’s hands and gives a playful wink. “To the stage, Prim!”

Every so often in her life there were these moments of perfection.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Where everything stays still.

Ophilia closes her eyes and laughs. Primrose does, too.

And she’s dancing on air.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for sticking with this piece through the full thing. It's long, and it took so much of me to write, but I'm so happy I was able to finish it. I love Octopath Traveler so, so much and I love these characters with my whole heart. Please let me know what you think, because I'd love to write so much more. Again, thank you!!!!
> 
> The quote in the summary is by Vincent van Gogh!
> 
> For more Octopath related hollering, you can follow me on twitter @ tsubakimac !!!


End file.
